Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (7 page)

Someone was in the corridor. A bright surge of triumph burst in her, followed by nerves. She sidled to the outer door, back flat against the wall, hand on her Taser. Slowly, she grasped the knob, tightening her hand around it as much as she could without moving it.

One, two, three.
She jerked the knob at three.

Brittany, a stack of worn towels in her arms, was pulling Frankie’s door closed. She screamed when Kirby flung open the door. A stack of clean towels flew up, then landed in a heap on the carpet.

“What are you doing?” Kirby demanded, slipping the Taser into her purse.

Brittany’s plump white hand pressed against a roomy pair of denim overalls. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you sneaking around?”

“I’m not.” A sly look flitted over her face. “I’m just doing my job,
Miss
Frances. What are
you
doing?”

“I was worried about Charleen, uh, my momma, so I thought I’d look around for a clue about where she was going.”

“Like those detective shows on TV?” Interest—not alarm—settled over Brittany’s round face.

“Exactly. Has anyone touched the magazines by the chair since Momma left?”

Her gaze rolled up toward the ceiling. She was thinking more than the honest truth needed. “N-no.”

“It’s okay. I just need to know.”

“Are you going to tell Miss Bea?”

Kirby shook her head. “I just want to find my momma.”

“Sometimes I look through them.” Her eyes shifted away from Kirby’s face. “But your momma said it was okay as long as she’s not here, and I put them back the way I found them.”

Sure. Charleen is a gem of a human being. A real sharer.
“Okay. I appreciate your honesty. You’re really helping me here.”

“I am?”

“Absolutely. When did you last look at them?”

“Last week. But just for a second. They were old ones.”

“And you put them back in the same order.”

Brittany inched toward the door. “I—I think so.”

“Did you notice anything different?”

“Just the usual.”

“Like what?”

“Why are you asking me all this? I have to go.”

“Please, Brittany. This is important, and you are doing such a good job so far.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“She’s always writing notes on account of getting forgetful. That’s what she said. If I find one when I make her bed and stuff, I’m not supposed to throw it away.”

“Does she leave them in her magazines?”

Brittany shifted restlessly. “She leaves them all over. I have to get dinner started or Miss Bea will be breathing fire.”

“Just one more thing. Does anything in this room strike you different from the other times my momma took off?”

“I don’t know. Not really.” Brittany frowned at Kirby. “Don’t you know?”

“I…didn’t notice anything. Besides, you’re probably in my momma’s room more than me. Right?”

“I already told you about the magazines.”

“You’re doing such a good job. Look around. Does anything seem different? No matter how crazy.”

Brittany’s mouth tightened. “
You
seem different.”

“I-I’m just worried.”

“All that stuff on her dresser, Miss Frances. Usually she takes it with her, doesn’t she? Is that what you want me to say?”

Some cop she was. The girl was right. Charleen would never go off without her pots and tubes of age-reducing magic. Especially with a man, which was what Maguire and Miss Bea insisted she’d done.

Brittany swept up the scattered towels. Bits of metal clinked against each other in the pockets of her overalls. Her gaze met Kirby’s. Guilt rattled in their depths.

“What’s going on, Brittany. Is there something else?”

“I’ve gotta go.” Brittany bolted down the corridor as if running for her life.

Chapter Six

Kirby did a quick sweep of Frankie’s room after Brittany skittered off. Nothing appeared to be missing. Still, the girl had been up to something in here. She was just about to head down to the coach house for Frankie’s car when she heard voices.

“How dare you!”

“Cut the crap!”

“Mr. Shaw will hear about this!”

“Good. Maybe he can get a straight answer out of you.”

Angry shouts punctured the air beneath Frankie’s window. Kirby peeled back the drapes. Maguire, shoulders stiff, marched toward the barn. Miss Bea, head high, strode into the house.

Miss Bea and Maguire. She’d have given anything to be a fly on Maguire’s Stetson when those two locked horns. Next best thing—ask him before he cooled down. Folks didn’t always tell the truth, but their faces never lied. Especially when they were mad.

Kirby grabbed Frankie’s purse from the bed and headed down the corridor, emerging in time to see Miss Bea stomp through the doorway to the west wing and slam the heavy doors behind her. Kirby hurried down the staircase and through the parlor to the kitchen and the back door.

In the kitchen, Brittany was kneading a pale, misshapen ball of dough at the counter. Which reminded Kirby of another question…

“Excuse me.”

Brittany’s head jerked up. The dough slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. A cloud of flour leaped up, dotting the legs of her overalls.

Brittany bent and scooped up the dough. “What are you doing down here?”

“I was wondering if you’d heard or seen any women besides Miss Bea in the west wing? I thought I heard someone this morning.”

The girl snorted. “Like a girlfriend for Mr. Shaw or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just Miss Bea.”

“Are you sure?”

“I guess I’d know if I saw something, wouldn’t I? Of course, I don’t go sneaking around where I’m not wanted.”

A pebble of irritation lodged between Kirby’s shoulder blades. “If you do see or hear anything, can you let me know?”

Brittany’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Why should I?”

Kirby wanted to slap her. Why all the damned attitude? No wonder Frankie was upset. “Because I want to know.”

“Whatever. Do your own snooping.” She turned her back on Kirby and plopped the dough on the counter.

Kirby pulled open the back door.

“If you’re going out to pester Seth, you should leave him alone,” Brittany said.

“Why would I pester Seth?”

Brittany smoothed a flaxen braid. “You think you’re so sexy, but Seth doesn’t want you.”

What was going on here? While Seth Maguire chased Frankie’s money, had he turned his obvious charms on Brittany? “Did he tell you that?”

Brittany faced Kirby again. “He didn’t have to. I understand him.”

Maguire had to be at least a decade older than Brittany. Plus, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man with the patience to deal with a silly girl. “Are you sure your signals aren’t crossed?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Like you know how he feels.”

Kirby clamped her lips together. She was no Dr. Phil. Besides, she wasn’t much different. Scott was more than a decade older than her, too. “Mr. Maguire is a fine man. I hope you are both very happy.”

A car with a missing muffler rumbled over the drive. “Who’s that?” Kirby glanced out the window. A rusty Ford Explorer zoomed past.

“Manny. He usually leaves around four.”

“He doesn’t live on the ranch?”

“You sure are full of weird questions today,
Miss
Frances. You got some big surprise planned for us?”

What did that mean? “Maybe. You expecting one?”

“Miss Bea says you can’t be trusted.”

She would.

“You like him, don’t you?” Brittany asked. “’Course, you like everyone. Or at least the guys.”

It was the truth. Frankie’s self-control was nearly nonexistent when it came to men. Although loose morals weren’t a crime unless you happened to be living under Grandy’s roof. “He seems a little young for me, don’t you think?” Kirby asked.

“Well, duh. Why do you think Miss Bea said to stay away from him? I saw you rubbing up against him that time and grabbing him and everything. We all did.”

That explained the horrified looks this morning. And the hazards she faced if she wanted to finish interviewing him about Charleen’s disappearance without Miss Bea, Mr. Shaw, or Maguire knowing.

“Are you and Manny friends?”

“Not really.” She flipped a braid over her shoulder. “But I think he likes me.”

“Why’s that?”

Brittany turned to the window and her gaze got dreamy. “Because I feel sorry for him.”

“Do you think he’d do you a favor if you asked?”

Her gaze sharpened. “What kind of favor?”

“I’d like to talk to him, but it would have to be off the ranch.”

“’Cause Miss Bea and Seth would have your ass if they caught you bothering him again.”

“I just want to talk. Since he’s your friend, I’m sure he’d say yes if you asked.”

“Yeah, right. Why do you want to
talk
to him?”

“Maybe he’s seen something that will help me figure out where my momma’s gone off to.”

Brittany snorted. “You’re pissing on my boots and telling me it’s raining.”

“I’m being straight with you. I could meet him in town. In the, uh, restaurant.” There had to be a coffee shop or diner on the main drag. “I’ll buy him a burger or a cup of—”

“You mean the Limestone?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not doing you any favors.”

Kirby glanced out the kitchen window. It had to be at least two. Her stomach ached for a piece of meat and something—anything—fried. By the time she talked to Maguire, went into town, had lunch, and stopped in at the station, it would be dark. She patted her purse. The money envelope crunched. “I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

Brittany’s eyes glittered greedily. “Maybe you should ask him yourself.”

“Thirty dollars.”

The girl nodded. “Sure. Why not? But I get paid even if he says no.”

“Of course. Thirty dollars just for the asking. I really appreciate it.” She pulled open the door.

Brittany’s eyes took on a sly gleam. “I’m supposed to tell Miss Bea if you leave the house.”

Kirby’s stomach soured. What kind of people were these? The intimidation, the cruelty, the threats. No wonder Frankie tiptoed out in the middle of the night. “I’m just going to talk to Seth.”
And drive into town. Alone.

“Miss Bea will fire me.”

Kirby couldn’t find it in her heart to care, and that bothered her. She’d always cared. About everyone. It was why she’d joined the force, and why she’d lived with Grandy until he died, and why she was here now. “Please.”

Brittany snickered. “For a hundred dollars.”

Kirby could barely stand to look at her. “Deal. Set up the meeting, then I’ll pay you.”

“But—”

Kirby was out the door before Brittany could object. Let her tell Miss Bea if she wanted to. The nasty old woman could hardly hold Kirby against her will.

Kirby headed across the back lawn toward the Mercedes, which beckoned her from the open garage. Ducking inside, she dropped her purse onto the front seat. Beside her, a short flight of steps rose to the coach house. The solid door and two shiny brass dead bolts seemed to holler at would-be visitors,
Keep Out
.

On a wall beside the steps, a pegboard hung. A dozen keys dangled from its hooks.

“Seth, are you there?” No answer.

Police work could be very satisfying. Very, very satisfying. Like now. She lifted the Mercedes key from a hook, palmed it, and headed for the barn where Maguire had disappeared after his skirmish with Miss Bea.

Deep in the barn, Maguire hosed down giant screens. Kirby watched him lift the large frames as if they weighed nothing then maneuver the nozzle in an efficient S pattern. His movements were graceful and sure beneath his sweat-dampened shirt. No mystery why this man had Frankie and Brittany falling all over themselves. A small spark of desire warmed her belly. If he was a better man, a decent man, she might be falling all over herself, too.

She turned away from him and inspected the barn for any obvious places to hold a hostage. As far as she could see, there were none.

On her right, two stalls spread with fresh hay awaited Old Tom and Darby’s return from the paddock. Reins, feed buckets, and other horse gear hung from the wall beside them. Below the horse gear, the rifle from the ridge lay across a tack box.

Bang!

Kirby jumped.

Maguire had dropped the metal screen. He pulled a long brush from a bucket and scraped the frame.

A single bead of sweat ran down her face. She wiped it away and lifted the rifle from the tack box. It was only a few pounds heavier than her Glock. A kid’s gun. Or a lady’s. Resting it against her shoulder, she aimed out at the fields and checked the sight. Waves of lavender swayed into view. Had the shooter meant to warn them away from the ridge? Or had he meant to kill Frankie?

She fingered the ornate stock. It had been hand carved and polished to a deep luster. A rifle made for show and sport. The intertwined leaves and branches framed two letters:
BV
. Bea Vine.

The water stopped abruptly. “Frankie? What are you doing in here?” Displeasure glittered in Maguire’s eyes.

She set the rifle down. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Seems like you were sneaking up on me.”

She was damn sick of being the bad guy. Irritation tightened her jaw. “I didn’t sneak. I walked. Into the barn. To talk to you.”

“So what do you want to talk about?”

“I just saw Miss Bea. She seemed upset.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

He shrugged and took a few steps closer to her. “None of your business.”

“Of course. I just wondered if it had something to do with her gun.”

His mouth thinned. “No. Go back to the house, Frankie. I got work to do.”

Some folks lied in interrogation; others preferred to blow smoke. Like Maguire. “So the gun used in the attack this morning was hers. Right?”

“Forget about this morning. I have everything under control.”

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no.”

“Since you know it was, why are you asking?”

“I thought no guns were allowed on the ranch.”

A speculative look lit his eyes. “We talked about this last month. Remember?”

He was lying. Wasn’t he? She had no choice but to take a chance or not get her questions answered. “No. I don’t. Are you sure?”

“You asked if it was loaded,” he said.

“Definitely don’t recall asking that. And you said what?”

“No. Shaw let Miss Bea keep it for sentimental reasons. Anyone who wanted to use it would have to drive into El Royo and buy bullets.”

“The shooting should be reported. The local cops will check the gun shops. See who bought ammo in the past week.” Why didn’t he want to call the police? Why didn’t Frankie? It didn’t made sense.

The way he tilted his head, the way he looked at her like he could read her thoughts, told her one important fact. He knew why the police weren’t called, and he thought she should, too. “Nothing happened out there. An unknown person shot a gun. Probably by accident.” He jerked his head at the rifle. “Maybe it was that gun, maybe not.”

“Did you check the chamber? Is it loaded?”

“Listen, Frankie. No one was hurt. Besides, Miss Bea says she didn’t do it.”

“You don’t believe her,” Kirby said. She wanted the truth from Maguire, and she wasn’t letting go until she got it.

He glowered at her. “You a mind reader now?”

“You tell me. I say you confronted her, she proclaimed her innocence, you didn’t believe her. Does that just about sum up what happened a little earlier?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke roughly.

“I think I do.” She narrowed her gaze and met his, daring him to lie to her face.

He rubbed his chin and studied her. A dangerous gleam lit his eyes. “Never seen you so nosy before.”

Panic squeezed her, then it was gone. He couldn’t prove she wasn’t Frankie, and in a few days she’d be in Tulsa, and Frankie would be back in Shaw Valley and, hopefully, reunited with Charleen. There was nothing more to learn here, and by the looks of him, Maguire needed time to cool down. A dangerous gleam lit his eyes, and his mouth had tightened into a hard line.

“I should go,” she said, stepping back from him.

“Stick around,
Frankie
. The new you is sort of growing on me.” His gaze swept down her body and landed on her ballet flats. “Maybe you’d like to help me clean the lavender screens. Seeing as you got your sensible shoes on today. You liked feeding the horses, didn’t you? This will be fun, too.”

Her heart thumped. “I’d just be in the way.”

“You helped me last year.” He studied her. “Remember? It was your first week at the ranch, and you came wandering in here. Just like now. Said you wanted to work at my side.” His eyes bored into hers. “You were wearing those ridiculous shoes. You remember them, don’t you?”

Something in his gaze and the way he moved closer made her throat constrict. “Uh, yes. Of course.”

“What did you call those shoes again?”

He took another step. The heat of his body closed around her. The scents of detergent and perspiration and anger assaulted her nose. She pulled out of his reach and said, “Heels?”

They were eye to eye now. Sparring for answers neither of them was willing to provide. The words hardly mattered.

Maguire shook his head. “No. Something else. Sounded Italian.”

Slowly, carefully, steadily, he kept coming. A hunter closing in on his prey. He breached her personal space, hovering over her. The toes of his boots pressed against her ballet flats. Her eyes were even with his thick chest.

If she ran, he’d know. Guilt always ran. She held her ground. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Look at me.” His fingers slipped under her chin and tilted her face up. They were hot and rough, like his breath and his stubbled cheeks. Like him. She couldn’t breathe. Suspicion smoldered in his eyes, and something more dangerous. The desire to break her. He released her chin. Heavy palms pressed her shoulders and brushed down her bare arms, curling in to capture her elbows. He lowered his head. His mouth was a breath away from hers. She couldn’t look away.